


except when that tune clutches my heart

by voodoochild



Series: Challenge on Infinite Earths [4]
Category: The Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Espionage, F/M, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are at least thirty-two spies amongst the crowd in the ballroom, and most of them have their eyes on the big four - Hitler, Mussolini, Chamberlain, and Daladier. [Lix and Randall play spies in the 1930's.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	except when that tune clutches my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Challenge on Infinite Earths, day 4, "spies". And really, Spies of Warsaw was basically official AU fanfiction of The Hour, right? This is kind of along the same lines, and takes place in Rome, 1933. Randall is head of Section 6, the precursor to MI6's counterespionage division. Lix is the Viscountess Salisbury, divorced from the Viscount, and a freelance spy for Section V. Hector and Marnie work for Randall, Freddie and Bel actually live with Lix (all respectable ladies of the peerage should have a secretary-ward and an artist in residence, and if they so *happen* to have connections with the Bolshevik underground, well, that works out nicely for everyone involved), and WWII is looming.

_Palazzo Venezia, Rome  
July 15, 1933_

There are at least thirty-two spies amongst the crowd in the ballroom, and most of them have their eyes on the big four - Hitler, Mussolini, Chamberlain, and Daladier. Randall's instructed all of his people to watch the watchers, and watch the ones that believe they're safe, for those will prove the greatest assets. They're planning on turning an assistant to Goebbels, get eyes and ears inside the Reich, and he's on his guard for any German counterintelligence agents who could botch this entire operation.

He could shoot C for deciding the Four-Party Pact was the venue to do it in.

The Countess d'Orsay laughs shrilly to his left, and he edges a bit closer to the door. He can't actually leave, mission to accomplish and all, but at the very least, he can duck around the waiters and keep an eye on his target - French Minister for Air Pierre Cot. Six has had solid intel that there will be an attempt on his life at this ball, the night before the signing of the Pact. Of course, there's also the undersecretary to the Italian foreign defense minister, who keeps attempting to make small talk with Randall.

" _Madre di Dio_ , would you look at her?" the undersecretary says, and Randall tries not to roll his eyes as he turns around. It's likely minor royalty of some sort, the undersecretary seems to be easily impressed. "How do you French say - she is _la belle putain_?"

Randall pretends to sip at his champagne as he turns around, and nearly spits it in the undersecretary's face. On the arm of Dino Grandi, the Blackshirt and Ambassador to the UK, is Lix. Judging by the diamonds-and-sapphires around her neck and dangling from her ears, it's likely she's going as the Viscountess - Lady Alexandra, Viscountess Salisbury. Of course, not a soul in the place is looking at her jewelry, not when she's draped in midnight blue silk, scoop neckline and tiny diamond clasps going down her back. 

"How do you know she's a whore?" he asks the undersecretary in feigned terrible Italian. 

The oily little man smiles unpleasantly enough that Randall considers breaking his jaw. "Signore Grandi is already married and not skilled with women. He's paying her."

The fact that the undersecretary is speculating so loudly (and incorrectly) doesn't bother Randall, it's the fact that he's still looking at Lix like she's already naked in front of him. Randall absolutely does not get jealous - first of all, it would be absurd, he knows what he and Lix are to each other, and second of all, he has no right, considering he's equally capable of sleeping with strangers for information. Mostly, he wants the excuse to rid the world of another double agent. The undersecretary's been playing both the Italians and the British, and he's terrible at it. He's going to get someone killed one day.

Randall just wants to get ahead of the game.

"You should introduce me to the ambassador," he suggests. "Then you could speak to her."

The undersecretary thinks that's a fine idea, and heads across the floor, glass in hand, smoothing his hair back. Randall motions for one of his officers - Elaine Forster, quite good at this sort of thing - to delay the undersecretary and dispose of him somewhere discreet, while he takes another glass of champagne and pretends to weave on his feet. Drunkenness is an art to affect, and he immediately requests loudly to dance with the British ambassador to France's wife. Catherine plays along, snickering under her breath as he pretends to trip and step on her toes, turns her toward the doors so he can look just past the top of her head at Lix. She's playing the society role to the hilt, laughing brightly at something Grandi has said, though Randall can see how irritated she is even halfway across a crowded room.

"All this effort to dance badly, Commandant LeMarc?" Catherine asks, remembering to use his cover identity. "Just dance with her, it's not as if anyone will notice. There are a hundred people in this ballroom."

"It's a risk," he says, accenting his English and making her giggle. "Anything public is."

"You're ridiculous. The only souls in this room who would recognize you all work for you. And naturally, you terrify them, so it isn't as if they'd risk blowing your cover."

"It doesn't -"

She cuts him off, and despite being a full foot shorter than him, effortlessly muscles him around the other couples to casually bump into Grandi and Lix, and gasps in delight. "Dino! Oh, my apologies, Lady Alexandra, it's just that I haven't seen this dear man in ages. John's been away on assignment in America, it's been simply dreadful. Would you terribly mind if I commandeered him to catch up? I'll loan you my dance partner for the meantime."

Catherine Danton is magnificent, he'll have to talk John into letting him utilize her on more missions. Lix is hiding her laugh, but just barely. Grandi bows to her, kisses her hand with a lingering smarm, and takes Catherine's outstretched arm. Her expression clearly states 'you owe me one, Brown', and he resolves to buy her opera tickets for the next year in gratitude. He looks over at Lix, his equal in height in her heels, and extends his hand.

"If I may I have the pleasure, Madame?" he says, mispronouncing a few words, slurring a bit on the beginning. 

Lix's mouth twists, feigning aloofness. "Oh, I suppose. One dance."

The music switches languages, an Italian troubadour replaced with an American torch singer, and the band strikes up a new song from a Broadway musical. Lix had dragged him to the West End a few weeks ago; she'd had to run out halfway through after a dead-drop letter from a source, leaving him to endure the rest alone. This song was playing as she left, and her eyes glint in remembrance. She takes his hand, and Christ, he's got to be careful, because he wants to pull her close, press his mouth to the delicate curve of her ear, the soft skin at the hinge of her jaw. Her hair is pinned up, curls escaping at the nape of her neck and spiraling down the side of her face, and it's that little detail that reminds him how long it's been since they were together. Long enough for the marks to have faded. She still moves with him as perfect as ever, keeping a decorous distance, but brushing her hips against his teasingly. 

"Rome is new," she murmurs, glancing down at his uniform. "So is your wardrobe. Whom do I have the pleasure of dancing with tonight?"

"Phillippe LeMarc, _commandant dans l'armee francais de division aerienne_. I've been placed in Cot's office. He's very displeased with Mussolini's behavior during the talks, and from the sound of it, the Italians have noticed. We don't need the French Minister for Air dropping dead just before this pact is signed."

Lix eyes Mussolini over his shoulder. "Mmm, definitely not. Though I can tell you with relative certainty that Dino would like to get his hands on whomever has been decimating his spy network in England. You and Six wouldn't be responsible, would you?"

"We might be," he says, and she laughs, lets him twirl her just to catch the scent of her perfume.

"Be careful, darling." She trails her fingers down the back of his neck cat-quick, and he tries not to shiver for it. "The Blackshirts are riled, and I'd hate for you to ruin that lovely uniform with blood."

He laughs, brushes his hand against her upper thigh where he knows the stiletto is strapped. It's difficult to hide weapons in a dress of that construction - flimsy silk, slit cut to mid-thigh - but if anyone can manage it, it's Lix. He suspects her bracelet has a garrotte wound in it, and there's likely another blade in the heel of her shoes. 

"I carry a pistol. Much less clothing damage."

There's a commotion beside them, and he recognizes Alistair motioning for him to direct his attention to his six. He cuts his eyes over to Piers, one of his operatives, who's giving him the sign that Cot's about to leave. Randall isn't normally a gala type of person, ready to dance all night, but he wishes Cot were less of a boring sod right now. He can feel his teeth grinding, he's going to have to follow him, be sure there's no Italian assassins - homegrown or hired - waiting for Cot. 

He releases her, extremely resignedly, and kisses her hand. "That's my exit cue."

"Randall, I mean it, be careful," she insists, pulling him closer and whispers in his ear. "Grandi has the entire French embassy watched. Get Cot somewhere safe and get out. Find me at the Hassler, the Trinita del Monte Suite, I've got two Five agents next door and a couple of lovely American blokes down the hall."

"If I find them in your bed, sweetheart, I'll be cross," he hisses before breaking away, moving through the crowd to tail the minister.

It's three hours, two of which he's stuck crouching behind an armored car exchanging gunfire with the Italians. It's more of an eventful night than he'd planned, and he trudges up the Spanish steps in a ruined uniform. Bribes a Belgian tourist out of his overcoat and hat, and throws his jacket in the rubbish bin before buttoning the coat and pulling the hat down over his eyes. He passes the concierge, waving his hand and babbling what amounts to a shopping list in Hungarian. The coat and hat are discarded in a storage closet, and he gets up the service elevator without attracting any attention.

The locks to the Trinita del Monte suite are laughable, though being shoved against the closed door and a gun held to his forehead is much less pleasant, even if it *is* Lix. She releases him with a laugh, sets the derringer down on an end table.

"You smell like a Roman sewer," she says, nose wrinkling. "I have a bath drawn, but you could use it more than I. Out of that suit, ridiculous man, I'll not have you getting dirt all over this gown."

He begins unfastening his cuffs, watches her work the zip to her dress down. “Gladly," he says, gesturing to her zipper. “I could-"

"Oh, thank god, I am *not* a contortionist." She turns her back so he can zip her down, press a kiss to the bared skin of her back. “And since the Americans are safe in their beds and not in mine, I’ll have to make do with you. I think I’ll keep you, darling."

That is, quite honestly, the single best thing he's heard all week. He hopes she's reserved this suite for the next few days, they won't be leaving for a while.


End file.
